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Aggie avoided Murph all weekend. He didn’t try to talk to her or knock on her door. No, it seemed the kiss they’d shared need not be repeated. At least, that was what she told herself. Lips on lips, it had been one of the best kisses she’d ever had and it turned from tentative touches to all-consuming within seconds. Tongues had joined the fray and then some roaming hands—okay, her roaming hands. The recollection of the muscles along his stomach, his rib cage, and his package taunted her in dreams.
He’d been as absorbed in her, too, and then...no word came to mind in the last forty-eight hours to describe what the hell occurred. All because she’d asked him to take her to bed, he became completely unresponsive and wanted to stop. Where the hell her impulsive urge and words had come from, she still had no clue.
Way to throw yourself at him. Women let the men do the throwing. Yep, she’d hurled herself, and it had scared him. Scared, because during her endless analyzing and replays, she never recalled disgust or disinterest, but she’d taken it as rejection. Hell, she stayed away because of her freak-out and her ridiculous behavior. In school and college, she’d played sexual relationships close to the belt. Never partying too hard, playing designated driver, and sticking to one boyfriend who happily got rid of her V-card. Then when he ditched her, as those around her often did, she’d steered clear of men.
Meeting Jordan had been a random chance and never would’ve happened if she chose to go home instead of out with a coworker to celebrate an impending marriage. She’d been happy and a little tipsy. Jordan escorted her home, kept her safe. Two dates later, she’d decided to trust him with her body, and he’d made it worth her while until she became boring.
That thought stuck her with her the most, being boring. Murph inspired anything but boring. With him, she let loose, which freed her. A strong woman could make her own choices and sleep with a man who she wouldn’t be in a relationship with. Her mother wouldn’t tell her not to do that. Creating excitement or a mood for seduction, not a common experience for her, but trying new things...she’d already done that by moving and everything.
As she parked behind their apartment building, she tried to think of other ways to get things between her and Murph back to less awkward and into more comfortable territory, maybe dinner. She could pull off dinner since she always bought more food than she needed. Maybe some pesto with the chicken breast, a little lemon pasta, and a bottle of wine.
By the time she reached the front door, her mind was made up to invite Murph to dinner tomorrow night, then she heard the music—heavy metal, hard rock vibrating through the floorboards of the porch. Opening the front door, the sound blasted out, echoing through the foyer as she stepped in, slamming the door shut behind her.
The sound made no impact, and she couldn’t believe Murph would deliberately do something like this. If it continued, someone was likely to call the cops. Punching the security code, she locked the front door and dropped her work bag against the wall.
She banged on his front door. No answer came, even after she beat on the wood with both fists. Ready to give up, she decided to try the doorknob. So far, she’d learned Murph never liked to lock up or simply forgot. One of the reasons he suffered a break-in, no doubt. At the same time, she couldn’t blame him for people busting up his things. No one deserved property damage, especially to their own creative work. The knob turned with ease, and she gave a push. The force of the music hit hardest at the entry point.
Instead of trying to find her landlord, she decided to stop the wailing male voice upset with his breakup. She located the sound system in the living room and thankfully found the power button. With the music turned off, she called out, “Murph, where are you?”
He wasn’t in the living room, nor the kitchen. She tiptoed down the hallway, trying to shed the feeling of being a trespasser in his private space. The first room appeared to be a spare one. In here, she found a workout bench, a heavy boxing bag and stand, painting supplies, canvases, and a mini refrigerator—all around a general mess, which fit the artist part of him. The holes in the walls on the left side of the room disturbed her a bit, and she wondered if this room got his bad moods. Dread found a spot in her belly and started to grow.
The bathroom came up on her left, also open and empty. The space was small with only a toilet, single sink, and standing shower, but surprisingly neat. The exact opposite of the painting room. Finally, she reached the bedroom, and when she saw him collapsed on the floor, she ran over, anguish trying to grab every part of her.
She pressed a hand to his forehead, rapidly trying to think through the possibilities and keep herself calm. “You don’t have a fever. Are you awake?”
Leaning in close, she smelled booze. He reeked of it.
“What the hell did you drink?” She shook him by the shoulders, near panic. “How much did you drink?”
His eyelids fluttered and then cracked open.
“How many, Murphy?”
“Two.”
She sighed, thankful to get a response from him at all. The next thing to consider—calling an ambulance. “Two of what?”
“Bottles.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific. Soda? Beer?”
“Bourbonbons.” As horrible as it was, her landlord sounded precious and adorable slurring his words. “I drunks ’em.” He struggled to put up two fingers.
“How do you feel?”
“Betterish. Aggie, you er lovesly.” He smiled and then gave a grunt.
The hand he’d used to show her two fingers now came and caressed her cheek in a lazy, loose stroke. While he fondled her cheek, she took his pulse and monitored his breathing. Being a perfectionist came with the perks of minoring in nursing and getting an RN. She’d long decided medical basics should have been required courses for dealing with people’s eating habits.
His breathing checked out normal and his skin wasn’t blue or pale. As far as she could tell, he didn’t have alcohol poisoning, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to leave him on the floor.
“Am I really lovely?” She shouldn’t have asked that, but part of her wanted to know his thoughts without his normal checkpoints in place.
“You’re uh-mazing.”
Tucking her feet underneath her, she put both arms under his armpits. “Thank you for the kind words. I’m going to help you up now, but you’ve got to help me.”
He nodded in agreement.
“On the count of three. One, two, three.” She lifted, he pushed, and somehow, she got him to a standing position. Then they were both falling onto his bed. Thankfully, the mattress proved very forgiving.
Aggie stood and pulled Murph’s shoes off, and then also considered removing more of his clothes. Instead, she opted to get him comfortable and retrieve a trashcan near the bedroom door to place by the bed. He snored lightly, falling into a deep sleep, and only then did she take note of his room.
A large, brown La-Z-Boy recliner in the corner with the matching walnut-colored dresser, end tables, and bed. An old woven rug lay at the end of the bed, a basket for dirty clothes, and the brown flannel sheets. A closet in the corner held hanging clothes.
Different paintings adorned the walls, mainly landscapes, and then she gasped. To the right of the bed was a painting of her. At least, it looked a lot like her, the old her. She was smiling, wearing makeup and an outfit she never wore anymore because Jordan didn’t think yellow was her color. How this image of her ended up on his wall, she didn’t know. In a way, it made her feel special. She stood out in his mind. Like the Cupid’s Café letter said, she truly had an admirer.
Murph grunted and rolled over onto his back. Not willing to risk leaving him alone, because people died from choking on vomit or a sudden chill, the best bet involved staying here and checking on him through the night. Not really hungry, she snagged a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
After locking his apartment door and shutting off the lights, she curled up on the La-Z-Boy, grabbing a blanket from the end of Murph’s bed. Wrapping the fleece around her, she set the alarm on her phone to wake her up in two hours. Enough time to let some of the alcohol get out of his system, and she tried to ignore the fact of how sitting in the chair proved more comfortable than any night during the last two weeks in her new apartment.
“Night, Aggie.” His voice was a whisper and a comfort in the already dark room.
“Night, Murphy.”
#
The first thing Murph noticed when he woke was his mouth, all dry and disgusting like it was stuffed with cotton balls. Then the lingering taste of bourbon, out-all-night-puke bourbon. The second thing was Aggie, sleeping peacefully on his La-Z-Boy. The footrest propped up and her body stretched out, comfortable and at peace.
He wondered how she got there and couldn’t remember much, though he did remember his argument with Patrick. The idiot kept bringing up Aggie and the paintings. No, he didn’t have written permission to use her likeness, but as an artist, he’d always believed when inspiration struck, a painter needed to embrace it. Damn the consequences of the muse or model. While he still avoided asking for signed permission beyond their verbal agreements, the conversation loomed over him like spotlights in a display case.
Patrick resorted to threatening to tell Aggie himself and getting the paper signed on his own. After Murph asked for the rest of the week, Patrick agreed grudgingly and then hung up on him.
That was when it got bad. Oh, he went crashing hard and fast into a bottle of bourbon, which disappeared within two hours. Shot after shot, down the hatch, and he tried to paint his feelings, which produced the opposite effect. Instead, he cried, worried, and nearly destroyed every painting of Aggie he’d already started on.
The only thing to stop him was the wall in his spare bedroom. He’d taped his hands and pounded into the damn thing as if his life depended on it. If she said no to the painting, moved out, or worse...she’d think he qualified for the looney farm. Facing her, ruining what little they’d already shared, helped create the litany of holes. It’d been a long time since he’d acted in such a violent way. Maybe he was getting worse.
Murphy looked at her again, the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He wanted to touch her, impulsively anchor his fingers in her hair like the other night. The idea flooded his body with all sorts of arousal, and his skin felt hot. Oh, he’d been such an idiot to stop things.
The second bottle of bourbon he’d downed to help him sleep. He’d been running manic for a while, and the episode yesterday was a mixed one. Mixed ones were bad and could get him back in the hospital if he wasn’t careful.
Knowing the signs, he could ride this current mania for days, weeks. Another mixed swing filled with physical violence could easily happen again, making him not safe for Aggie. He possessed no good luck at all. The energy, the desire, the need for release still swirled in him. A hungry, angry beast.
When he left the bed for the bathroom, he heard her stir. A slow, soft moan trailed out behind him. He relieved himself, washed his hands and face, and brushed his teeth. God, they need it.
When he walked back into the room, Aggie had put the foot prop in its resting position and sat on the edge of the recliner. “How are you feeling?”
“Rested, but my head’s really fuzzy. I may need some aspirin.”
She shook her head. “Unbelievable. You really drank two bottles.”
“Not my finest moment.” But one of my worst. “Yesterday equaled a crappy day.”
“I’ll say. How about I get you the aspirin, and you lie down?” She stood and made her way toward him at the door.
“You don’t have to do anything. Maybe it’s better if you go.” He needed to protect her from himself.
“A friend would take care of you. I’m a friend. Let me help.”
“Okay,” he said, stepping aside to let her pass. You asshole. As she walked out of the room, he followed her progress into the kitchen before he lay on the bed. He covered his face with his hands, struggling to find the right words to tell her about the paintings or ask her for permission, to warn her that he’d hurt her unintentionally. But it was like he’d been offered a chance, karma granting him the opportunity, proven by the fact she was here...in his place, his room. Selfishly, he wanted her to be the solution.
Oh, fuck. She’d been in here and seen his paintings, and most likely the one of her.
“Here you are, a bottle of water and two aspirin.” Aggie’s voice sounded chipper and happy, though how she could be excited about anything to do with him was a mystery. The whole thing made him want to groan. “What’s wrong?”
And obviously, he’d groaned out loud. “Nothing.”
He sat up and took the water and pills from her outstretched hands. After downing the pain relievers, he set the water on the nightstand, still searching for words, but perfect ones proved elusive. Instead, he settled for the obvious. “No, what’s wrong is why you are here and taking care of me. You shouldn’t have to pick me up off the floor in a drunken stupor or whatever you had to do. You certainly didn’t have to stay, and it’s safer if you keep away.”
Aggie propped both hands on her hips and frowned. “Wow, you’re a cranky hungover person. First off, I took care of you because, again, I’m a friend. Second, you told me you drank two bottles of bourbon. I found no evidence of the bottles, though it’s not like I looked hard enough, but you consumed a cocktail for alcohol poisoning, so I stayed to make sure you stayed alive. Appreciate the thank you for keeping you breathing.”
Now he was a bigger ass. “Thank you. I appreciate the help.”
“Not so hard to say thanks?”
The look on her face, all stern and concentrated focus, made him chuckle. “No, and I need a good dose of humble pie.”
“Good. Now we can talk about other things, like where this painting of me on the wall is from.” She sat back in the recliner and he perched himself on the edge of his bed facing her.
“I painted it over a year ago.”
“I like it.”
He grinned. “You do?”
“Yes, it’s a great likeness of me back then. I was starting to do better, opening up and things. Can’t say I’m the same person now, but it’s a nice painting.”
“Imagine a whole exhibit of pictures like this one.”
Aggie waved her hands in the air. “A whole room of paintings of me...horribly embarrassing. No one wants to see so much of Agatha Kakos. This body isn’t meant for public display.”
“That’s not what I meant.” That’s exactly what I meant. “I mean, paintings in the same texture and style, tempera.”
“Oh, those will be wonderful. I like it. It’s got this old, classic quality to it. Not like mixed media art. I enjoy classics.”
Murph knew he’d fry in hell for what he was going to do next, but he needed her agreement. “A little confession, the displayed painting at Patrick’s gallery is similar to the one of you on the wall, but it’s a close-up portrait.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows tucked downward and a worried crease formed on her forehead. He’d kiss it away if she let him. “Let me guess, this is the same painting that got people interested in your work?”
“Yes.” You, a painting of you. The subject drew interest as much as the artistic style, but she’d never accept herself as inspirational. “I want to display it in the show but need your permission, a signature on a model release, to do so.”
“Sure, I’ll do it if you do me a favor.” The grin she turned on him looked downright conspiratorial, like they were about to engage in something naughty.
Lord, he was on fire with the way she looked at him. He tugged on his shorts, trying to make room for his burgeoning erection.
“What?”
The grin went away and she looked at him straight-faced. “Tell me what the hell is going on with you.”
He gulped...not voluntarily, it just happened. She put him on the spot and wanted the truth, which would most likely scare her away. Yet, she’d said she was a friend. So... “I’m in the middle of a manic episode.”
“Okay, I’m a little familiar with those. What does it do to you?”
“It keeps me awake, makes me a little charged, angry, hyper, and I can barely sleep. Plus, I tend to talk a lot or think too much about things.” He paused for a moment, trying to not be too excited to say the next bit, but he couldn’t help it. “I’m also extremely aroused.”
Wide-eyed, Aggie asked, “Right now?”
Murph could only give a single nod in response.
“Does it help if you relieve it?”
“I’ve never really done it to take care of the problem, so I’m not sure.” His breath went shallow, and his dick throbbed in his shorts at the mere idea of releasing himself on Aggie. It’d been a while since he’d done anything sexual.
“Then let me help you figure it out.”
#
Part of her knew she should’ve been a little more demure or at least hard to get, stronger. Instead, here she sat throwing herself at Murphy, again. To be honest, she’d decided to do it yesterday, or at least play at seducing him. They could both take out a little of their frustrations with sex and the fact remained he made her happy, safe. Feelings she’d been missing since Jordan’s betrayal.
Sure, sleeping with her landlord might be a bad idea, but they’d confirmed their friendship before he became her landlord. At this point, she’d passed sane thinking, and she’d justify any excuse entering her mind. She’d found herself wanting him nearly a week ago and since then, the urge only intensified, evidenced by the damp heat between her legs.
Her heart pounded. The air around her thickened, making it difficult to focus on anything but his erection. The desire remained to recapture the taste, the sensations, and the thrill of their first kiss.
Murph stayed silent to her suggestion, so she chose action. After standing up from her spot on the recliner, she moved to the bed. She touched him first since he’d become a statue perched on the edge of the mattress. So still and breathing so slowly, she thought he might be afraid.
“Are you okay?”
“I could hurt you.”
“How?” Such an idea seemed impossible to her since he’d stopped everything the other night. “You’re the one always trying to protect and help me.”
“I’m trying to keep myself in control, but I don’t know if I can.”
She smiled, somehow preventing the laugh wanting to escape. “You won’t hurt me, and I’m fine if you get a little rough.”
Normally, she’d never say such a thing, but Murph buoyed her need to take risks. He took them all the time—not locking his doors, painting, even putting his artwork in a show. She could be risky, too. Leaning in, she touched her lips to his, sticking her tongue out in a tentative approach. That was all it took.
In a millisecond, his arms were around her, pulling her tightly against him. She melted into the embrace, relishing how everything between them was as incendiary as the first time they’d kissed.
She dragged her hands across those muscles, letting them roam freely as he deepened the kisses. They were seductive, drugging kisses and they infused her with desire. He wanted her now as she existed. So, she’d let him have her.
His hands cupped her breasts, massaging them through her shirt before trailing a path underneath the rayon top to her bra. Those expert fingers of his unlocked the clasps in no time, and then rough, calloused painter’s palms brushed her sensitive nipples. She moaned, and he responded by thrusting his tongue into her mouth. He mimicked what his dick would do to her later, like a piston in and out, before pulling away so he could whisper in her ear. “Take your top off.”
Aggie was good at following directions. The top and bra came off, and she tossed them across the room. He shucked his as well, and she gasped at the tattoo she found there: a painter’s brush with ink droplets spilling from it. Instinctively, she leaned forward to touch him, and he hissed at her hand on his bare skin. “What does it mean?”
“That my body, my future, is an open canvas, free for the painting and taking.” He refused to let her continue touching him. No, he lowered her onto the bed and covered her body with his, moving lower to suck a nipple into his mouth. She arched at the contact, the heat sending a wave of arousal coursing through her, stronger than anything else she’d experienced. Her pussy ached, already wet. Sliding a hand between their bodies, she stroked herself, hating the barrier of fabric separating her from relief.
Murph stopped her from continuing, giving her a naughty grin as he stilled her hand, flicked open the top button of her slacks, and began to slide them off her. A slow, sensual torture as he traced the edges of her panties before removing those, too. In minutes, she lay naked and exposed to him.
Normally, she’d be trying to climb under the covers or shield herself from view, but all she cared about at the moment was his body. “Not fair. You’re still wearing clothes.”
“If I strip completely then I’ll be too tempted to end this fast.” An index finger trailed between her labia and touched her clit, Murph’s breath warm against her belly button.
She jumped. “This is torture.”
“Then let me help.” His tongue replaced his finger, flicking with precision before dipping lower and entering her.
The man possessed expert knowledge on how to use this part of his anatomy. The things he was doing to her, she’d never experienced, from the way he nibbled on her outer lips, to the twisting tongue that found the exact spot to get her arms thrashing against the bed.
Part of her wanted to bask in the sensations forever, how her body was on fire with the ceiling fan’s cool air giving a chill. How something tightly coiled inside her like a spring pulled down, ready to burst at the slightest push over the edge. In minutes, she cried out for release, panting like some wild animal. She needed it, wanted to come so damn badly.
When he inserted a finger into her, a final plea froze on her lips. Her legs tightened, and for a moment, her vision blurred. Body bucking against the force of the orgasm, she screamed Murphy’s name.
“Amazing, simply amazing.” She fell limp against the bed, but Murph moved her so she received the cushioning and support from several pillows.
“We’re not done yet.” He smiled and reached into his nightstand, pulling out a condom.
“I don’t think I can handle anymore.” In reality, she’d never come more than once during sex, and anxious energy about letting Murph down coursed through her.
“What makes you think that?”
“Let’s just say I’ve never been able to peak twice.” She watched greedily as he removed his shorts, revealing his dick. Fully erect and jutting out with a little pre-cum on the tip, the urge to suck him overcame her, to put him in a vulnerable situation similar to her own. “Can I taste you?”
“Maybe next time. I have to be inside you.” A first time for everything since she’d never known a man to turn down a blowjob, at least not Jordan. Her ex preferred her mouth versus her body.
“Really?”
He rolled the condom on and positioned himself at her entrance. “I’ve imagined this for too long to stop now, even for something as sweet as your mouth around me. But only if you still want me.”
His eyes, she saw the emotion there, the respect, radiating back at her. If she uttered a no, he’d honor her wishes. The idea sounded as foreign as refusing a blowjob, but then this man proved to be far more caring and giving than any she’d met.
“I want you.” The word always almost slipped into her sentence, but she censored one of her crazy thoughts.
After brushing a strand of hair from her face, he thrust forward, and she pushed in the opposite direction to meet him, loving how he slid home without issue. They were joined in a perfect way. Soon, he started to move, slowly, and then picked up to a steady pace. A coiling pleasure rose within her, starting deep in her core.
“Faster.” The word came out as a demand rather than a question. If he increased the speed, they’d make it, possibly together, a goal for her since she’d never finished at the same time as her previous boyfriends. Somehow, the idea gave her thoughts of being inadequate. Yet, here she lay chasing a second orgasm. One she’d not thought possible.
He moved, altering his position within her by lifting one of her legs over his shoulder. The tension in her muscles mingled with the pleasure, shutting out any small pains the action caused. Their eyes met and she found herself locked on his gaze, both breathing in sync.
Too soon, he cried out, and blood pounded in her ears as she went over the edge, too. The connection they’d shared moments before broken. It was perfect and safe...and like she’d planned, without commitment. So, why did her heart ache at the idea she’d given too much of herself away?